Cat People Vs Exotroopers
by David N. Brown
Summary: Soldiers in mechanized body armor are sent to quell unrest among refugees. They discover a mysterious clan with a deadly secret... Movie/Mythos/OC crossover.
1. Prologue: Small Genocides

**This is the third "fan fic" adventure of a group of original, previously-published characters. It was conceived as a fan fic for an old movie, which I found didn't have its own page, so I decided to post it on the Cthulhu Mythos page. There's always been a significant Mythos influence on the future world of the exotroopers. This story line is intended to tie in to Robert Howard's story "The Black Stone", and also introduces a counterpart to the fictitious tome _Unaussprechten Culten._ **

**Small Genocides**

_From **Book of Lost Tribes**, by Stefan Teudtman, 1895_

_ Of all the tongues, tribes and nations of men, surely only a fraction of a tithe survive. I posit furthermore that, for every living people, at least ten have not only perished, but vanished even from the memories of the living... For a nation to disappear without a trace would seem a rare thing, but we forget the nation is largely a recent construct. Most of the peoples that have ever lived have been small and factious. In this state, it is quite easy for one tribe to destroy the other, without any notice by a wider world. Think of the Massacre of the Innocents: Even if Christian scripture be taken at face value, likely claimed but a score of babes, a minor barbarity of interest to wider "civilization" only long after the fact. Now think how much more easily far fouler deeds could go unnoticed, were civilization non-existent. One tribe destroys another, swiftly and quickly, scattering or assimilating those they do not kill, then the victors are destroyed by a larger tribe, and their conquest destroyed doubly. These are the small genocides... _

_ In the course of exploring His Majesty's holding of Hercegovina, I was reminded almost daily of the state of isolation which can prevail even today, on the doorstep of the empires of Europe. In the valleys of the Balkans, the practical limit of the known world may go no further than the next valley. Travel is doubly discouraged by the formidable terrain, and feuds among the local peoples. Peculiarities and archaisms of dress and speech abound. More than once, I entered villages where the populace did not know that His Majesty had almost a score of years since succeeded the Ottoman Sultan as ruler of their lands. It seemed a most opportune place to seek for memories and even living remnants of the lost tribes..._

1995

Danilo Princip would tell his sons that it was all but accidental that the Bosniaks were pitted against their Serb neighbors in the early 1990s. The Bosniaks rebelled against Slobodan Milosevic, not Serbia, still less the Serbs who lived alongside them in Bosnia-Hercegovina. Slobo was mad, and he thought his madness could hold Yugoslavia together. He had no opposite among the Bosniaks. It was Petar's half-articulated feeling that the madness of Milosevic was against the nature of the Bosniaks. They were cosmopolitans, not theocrats or nationalists. If they had been otherwise, their ancestors would not have embraced the faith of the land's Ottoman conquerors.

It was between Serbia and Croatia that hatred ran deep. The Hrvatskis were led by one Tudeman, a nationalist as mad as Milosevic, and they were only the latest protrusions of a rivalry that may have begun before their ancestors reached the Balkans. While Bosniaks were reckoned to be Serbs who followed Islam (at least by the Serbs), the Croatians were thought to be a related but separate tribe among the Slavic invaders who settled the land in the last days of the Roman empire. Their division was sustained by a religious divide, as the Hrvats followed Catholicism and Serbs followed Orthodoxy. It took the spectre of terrorists on the far side of the sea for Slobo's propagandists to stir up fear of the Bosniaks among the Serbs. For the Croatians, one word was enough: Ustasha.

"Ustasha!" was the cry that rang through the village of Stikkabuor as frightened men prepared for escape. The town had been touched but lightly by the war. The people of the town were a mix of Serbs and Bosniaks, many intermarried, like Dani's mother and father, and when it became expedient, one could hide the other. The ruse had served within living memory when the first Ustasha came, hunting Serbs but mostly leaving the Bosniaks alone. It had not even been necessary in the current war: The dregs of Beograd that did Slobo's foulest work were mad dogs, but they were not so many, and their master was not so mad as to send them to a tiny place that made no difference one way or the other. But Tudeman's followers were no less rabid, and they were whipped and starving too. They had suffered atrocities and adversities, as well as inflicting them, and they sought vengeance and total victory. The few score inhabitants of Stikkabor were just enough to leave an Hrvatski majority in the surrounding area in doubt, and so now "Ustasha" came again, this time not caring whether they removed Serbs or Bosniaks from their path

"Dress your sister," Dani's father ordered as he gathered what they could carry. "Then get her to Uncle Rad's."

"Are we going with him?"

"No. Just your sisters and your mother. I do not know when we will see them again, so do not ask."

"What about Anna?" His father scowled, more than he usually did at the mention of Anna's name. Anna was a girl he saw sometimes in the market, and often when he played at Kamena Gora, the hill outside of town. No one seemed to know where she lived, or at least the grownups never answered when he asked.

His father shooed him out with his seven-year-old sister. (He was almost twelve himself.) He never got to Rad's. He was scarcely out the door before his uncle drove up in a Koral, and picked Sasha from the curb. He glimpsed his other sister in a car seat in the back, but not his mother. Rad drove away before he could say any goodbyes. In tears, he ran for the edge of town.

Kamena Gora, Hill of the Stone, was avoided by adults. It was a small hill with a steep slope, and a series of outcroppings that looked like steps. He ran up the steps, calling, "Anna! Anna!" He ascended up to the Stone itself, a bright white column of rock that looked like a broken fang. It was said that the Stone was made by the Old Folk, whom it was said died out for some reason before any of the families now in the village arrived. It was children who spoke of it, as adults would say nothing except to warn that children who looked upon it by the light of the full moon would have bad dreams. He had done so once, only briefly, and he did indeed have dreams, but only of the Stone itself, seeming to glow brighter than the moon. Cousin Nathan said that he had looked upon it, and seen- not dreamed- the Stone intact, more than twice its current height, and hundreds of people, red-haired and clothed in animal skins, ascending the hill to dance around it.

As he panted beside the Stone, a shape suddenly moved in the thick brush around it. For a moment, it looked like a crouching beast, but then the figure stood up. "Hi, Dani," said Anna. "What's happening?"

"Everyone's leaving," he said. "They say Ustasha are coming."

"That's silly," Anna said. She emerged gracefully from the trees. Her face was almost elfin, her eyes wide and bright, her chin small but oddly pointed, her cheeks round and rosy. She wore a shawl over her head, like the Bosniak women and girls did, which did not wholly obscure a high, almost bulging forehead and a few wisps of red hair. He thought she was the most beautiful girl he had ever met, and would till his dying day. "The Ustasha are all gone."

"I do not know," he said, "but bad people are coming. My father and mother say that they will kill anyone who stays. I think you should come with us."

She frowned. "Oh, I will be fine. I wish you would stay here with me."

He shook his head. "No one will be safe. These bad men, they do not even care who goes to the church and who goes to the mosque. They will not stop until everyone is gone."

"But I and my family, we know places we will be safe," Anna said. "Come stay with us."

Danilo looked into her eyes, tears welling up again. Then a voice curtly yelled, "Anna! Come!" In the trees stood two more people. There was Anna's aunt, Iza, a huge woman whose shawl covered her entire face except for her piercing green eyes. Behind her was Anna's older brother, Andros, who had never spoken in Danilo's presence but often gave him cold glares.

"Iza!" Anna said, and began to speak words which Dani did not understand. Her aunt silenced her with a single word of rebuke and pulled her away by the wrist. Dani gave an inarticulate cry and started to follow, but Andros stepped into his path. For a moment, as Andros stepped through a patch of deeper shade, the older boy's eyes seemed to flash golden-green.

"Go," Andros said. "My sister should not have talked to you as much as she did. We already punished her once. We would have to hurt you, too, but we are already leaving. Do not follow."

Danilo returned late, and in anger his father beat him, yet then embraced him and wept. As they drove away in the family's little Fico, night was falling, and a mist was descending. As he nodded in and out of sleep, he heard his father stifle a curse, and felt the car speed up. Turning his head, he saw an almost eerie site: A cart, drawn by two donkeys (at least, they looked more like donkeys than horses) traveling the other way, swaying and bouncing like a ship on some half-forgotten old trail. Before the strange transport vanished in the thickening mist, his gaze was met by two perfect, shining, golden-green eyes.


	2. 1 Children of Iscariot

**This is a real landmark, which I've reidden past quite a few times. It was my first idea for Cass's "temple" in _The Rookie_.**

"Columbus should see this," said Little Rock. Both she and Tal frowned.

They were in Cabazon, California, home of one of the United States' most notorious roadside attractions. Innocent passerbys going through Palm Springs found themselves confronted by Dinny, a 150-foot-long concrete brontosaurus, and Mr. Rex, a 100-ton, 65-foot-tall tyrannosaurus. If they were unwary, they might end up in the belly of the brontosaurus- with nothing but dated paleo art and cheesy souvenirs to show for it.

Tal held up a plastic dinosaur with a young-Earth creationist slogan. "Maybe not..." He peered out a porthole. "No zombies."

"That's not the only thing we have to worry about," Little Rock said. "Maybe not even the worst..."

Tal nodded. It was 24 hours since they left the company of a man named Branson Missouri. Little Rock and her sister had first met Branson in southeast Oklahoma, as a fleeing middle manager whom they relieved of his car and his gun. After pairing with Tal and Columbus, they met Branson again, as the leader of a biker band that tried to take them captive in a Nevada strip mall. At their next meeting, they had come to Branson's headquarters, only to be attacked by three of his men with a score to settle. Branson had intervened on their side, executing one of his own men and leaving another to die in the process. Afterward, they stayed and fought alongside Branson's men, to defend an abandoned bombing range from 10,000 zombies. But they departed in fear, after Little Rock read Branson's mad plans to wipe out the vestiges of civilization. Tallahassee was sure they were being followed.

"Listen," Tal said, "I heard you can climb up in Mr. Rex's mouth. Let's go check it out. It will give us a better view, too."

The open mouth of the tyrannosaur proved to be a good vantage point indeed. Tal could see around the town, and sketched a little map of what roads were clear. "Oh, no," Little Rock said. She pointed mutely. In the distance, an Aztec step pyramid reared out of the top of a larger building, as if to trump the cheesy charm of Dinny and Rex with an architectural _trompe l'oeil_ that was garish, tasteless and probably politically incorrect to boot.

The building at the base of the pyramid was a mall.

Even as Tal watched, three zombies emerged from the mall. For some reason, zombies concentrated in malls more densely that any other structure. There were bound to be more already on the way, and still more already coming. There was an insidiousness to the zombies' diffuse, semi-random movements: You would see one, no problem; then a few, still nothing you can't handle; and then before you knew it, you were surrounded by scores or hundreds. This wasn't that bad, but it would be soon enough. "Little Rock," he said, "run for the Caddy. I can cover you."

By the time he had unlimbered his weapon, there were already two packs of zombies approaching Mr. Rex. He had with him an LSW, a modified M16 with a folding bipod and a 100-round drum. Propping up the gun rather awkwardly on the dinosaur's teeth, he shot a zombie that was approaching Little Rock. The others mostly looked in her direction, but she went into a credible imitation of the zombies' jerky gait. It could work well enough to reach safety before zombies got close, but that wouldn't get her to the Caddy: Six zombies already had the vehicle surrounded. He started shooting more zombies, always away from the Caddy. It gave the girl just enough time to power-lurch for the relative safety of Dinny. One zombie's eyes locked on her, but Tal shot it before it could call to the rest. But she all but blew her chance by going into a final sprint. Five zombies went straight for her, and a spray of cyclic fire wasn't enough to stop them all. She reached the brontosaurus, barely, but had to use a pistol to stop a zombie that tried to go in after her.

By now, there were well over 50 zombies, and more were still coming. He fired three more short bursts, then reached into his vest. He took out first a tube, then a pistol grip, and put them together to assemble a grenade launcher. He fired at five zombies feeding on one of their dead; a concussion grenade left them stunned or injured, and set other zombies keening and even staggering at the loud noise and bright flash of detonation. He reloaded and fired in the direction of the Caddy, scattering the zombies around it with a cloud of tear gas.

While zombies reeled at the sounds and smells, a short, palid figure lurched through their midst, right up to the Caddy. Little Rock pulled a kerchief over her face while she unlocked the door. A stumbling zombie bumped into the open door, and screeched. She slammed the door just in time. Tal smiled, then frowned. "No! Not for me!"

Little Rock backed over the better part of a pack. She was unfazed, until a zombie began pounding on the window beside her. The window was mostly protected by reinforced mesh, but the upper left quarter of the covering was cut away. The attacker stayed with her even as others fell behind or went under. She realized it was the same zombie that had almost caught her, with its hand caught in the door. The hand struck glass wrist-first through the opening in the mesh, and the "shatter-proof" glass cracked. She shrieked, and reflexively opened the door to send the zombie sprawling, fortunately into two more that tried to reach inside. In the seconds of distraction, she backed onto Mr. Rex's foot.

"Tal!" she shouted through the open sunroof, "come down!" He shook his head. Behind him, he could hear zombies snarling and jostling with each other on their way up. After two false starts, she rolled forward- and stopped. Tal grinned. It was well over fifty feet to the ground, but there was a chance...

The grenade launcher fired, blasting away some of the teeth in the upper jaw. A zombie was flung out, and another slammed face-first onto a broken tooth. Then Tal swung out of the open mouth, and scrabbled down what handholds could be found on Mr. Rex's cheek and neck, to catch hold finally of the little protuberance of an arm. From there, he made his leap, landed on a fabric cargo shell on the roof of the Caddy and tumbled and rolled into the sunroof. He rose with both weapons raised, and fired the grenade launcher, cutting a swath through the oncoming zombies with a flechette canister. Little Rock drove the other way, jumping curbs and medians, while Tal stood tall in the shotgun seat, laughing as he emptied the LSW at the pursuing swarm.


	3. 2: Strange Folk

_In some particularly old accounts, the Iskariodski are said to come from Istria, a peninsula of northern Croatia, and I believe their name is a corruption of this. It is intriguingly plausible that this was in truth their home land, as Istria is a rugged land, oft left to lawlessness, ideal for a peculiar tribe to survive unnoticed and unmolested. But this is, on the whole, doubtful. Iskariodski will profess different faiths and claim to be from different places, always ones unfamiliar to their hosts. This, surely, is a deliberate deception, so that little attention is paid to their peculiarities. This has, indeed, been largely successful, as but one report gives an account of their speech and habits. By this account, from the south of Arbania where many speak Greek, the Iskariodski speak a kind of Greek, with many peculiarities, particularly a common reversal of `t' with `d', as is known of ancient Macedonian. But, on the whole, it appears much less like a dialect of Greek than a `pidgin' of several tongues. If it can be determined what influence prevailed in their language, it may be known from where these strange folk come... _

Princip looked to the two woman. Both were tall, but relatively slender, deceptively so, as he quickly judged neither could be less than seventy kilos. Their eyes were a piercing green, their skin was fair, and their veils left enough of their faces exposed to see that one was older than the other. Their dresses were of an archaic type flared out above the waist like the feathers of a badmitton birdie. Both wrapped their heads in colorful shawls, and one had a veil over her face. Looking back, he got a better view of the others. The woman with the infants was lithe and lean, while the boy was chubby. Then there was the girl, beautiful for any age. At his gaze, she gave a strange, knowing smile. He jerked his attention back to the elder woman.

"What are your names?" he said succinctly.

"I am Izza," she said, "and this is my niece Ledda. Her children are Anya and Andros, and that is my daughter Ekadye. Our grandfather Dardon is in the trailer. He is old." Princip focused his audio sensors on the trailer. There was a steady yelling coming from within. There were definite words in it, but, while he prided himself on knowing most of the languages and dialects of the Balkans, and being able to recognize all of them, he could not recognize the speech. Ekatye handed her babies to Anya and stepped inside the trailer.

He looked to Ledda. "Is there any truth to what the Shqiptar says?"

Izza translated, in an odd Greek speech he found partially intelligible, and then translated the reply. "We are poor. All we have is what we carry with us," she said. "We must go among strangers, ask for help, seek work we can do, wherever we can. Often, we must go to bad men, the kind of men who do bad things, who bad things happen to." The Shqiptar shouted and tried to run at her. Zed held him back with an open-handed slap to the chest. Princip only nodded. He had little doubt that her "work" included prostitution, but he was not so strict a moralist as to condemn people for sins committed in desperation.

"The UN provides social services," he said. Izza responded with an indignant snort. "They are overburdened, and application is difficult, but for those in great need, there are ways to expedite the process. I can help if you wish."

"We thank you for your kindness," Izza said, "but we are able to care for ourselves. It will not be long before we move on."

"From where did you start?" Princip asked.

"North," she said.

"You should not go any further south," Princip said. "The front lines are less than an hour's drive from here. Both sides suffer terribly, the civilians more so than the soldiers."

"We have been through the country before," she said. "We know safe routes."

"Nowhere is safe," Princip warned.

"We keep ourselves safe enough," she said. "Now please, go."

Princip turned, clearly reluctant but resolved. To the crowd, he said, "I do not know what has happened, but I intend to investigate. If you have a problem, come to us. If you cause problems, we will come to you." To the other finbacks, he said, "We will do this from two directions. I will find out what I can about how the family arrived. Zed, you look into homicide reports, starting with the morgue. Keep the Flea and the Tick with you. That will be all."

The crowd was dispersing. The Shqiptar shouted one more curse and ran. The Flea and the Tick looked at each other. "Well, no riot," said the Flea.

"Better than might be expected," the Tick said sardonically. Then they both jumped in surprise at a strange cry from the trailer, almost like the roar of a cat.


	4. 3: The Arrival

_The Shqiptars call the Iscariodski _rhinoste_, roughly "people of the mist"._ _It is indeed universally reported that they appear with fog and sleet, and many tales say that they materialize from the air like dew. At any rate, I consider it beyond doubt that the Iskariodski travel mainly in seasons of fog, with great speed and stealth..._

The car that emerged from the mist was ancient and freakish: a Citroen 2CV, or in a certain sense two. 2CVs had once flooded Europe, being manufactured in the Balkans as the Spacek, and more than fifty years after the last specimen was produced, there were still enough specimens for them to be familiar. But this was a working vehicle, dirty, dinged and dented from age and long service, not lovingly restored by some collector. Nor was it a model any factory would admit to building: The car was made from the fronts of two Citroens, sawed off and welded together for the crudest possible form of a four-wheel drive vehicle. It moved weirdly through the last curve in the road, its four wheels turning while the body remained straight. Behind it, towering ludicrously above the car, came a makeshift trailer, apparently made from a medium-sized tanker trailer crossed with left-over Citroen parts. The car's suspension, legendarily rugged but notoriously sensitive, rocked constantly. The front was set lower than the back, but intermittently nosed up from the weight of baggage on the back bonnet. The trailer swung side to side like the mast of a sailing ship on rough seas. The contraption moved at barely 40 km per hour, and even that was better than might be expected. Yet, it had a surprising amount of momentum, a fact which became especially clear as it approached the gate. For a few moments, it looked as if the driver would ram through the gate, as the car coasted steadily onward. But, the car did finally stop, its rounded nose directly against the gate.

The sentries were already talking: "Do we have a heads up on these clowns?"

"Yeah, but only two checkpoints back." The voices became quieter, as the sentries naively tried to keep from being heard on the recording: "Well, we'd better do our duty. It's a safe bet nobody else will."

"What? We're not actually going to search them, are we?"

"You have any better idea?"

"But- they've already been through two checkpoints! They must have been searched at least once."

"Right, rockhead! Because there's no way the other two checkpoints had some rockhead who said, `No worries! Just wave 'em through; one of the other rockheads will search them."

"For crying out loud! We know they aren't smugglers or terrorists, and command will know it. If they were, they would have other ways in, and they sure wouldn't drive that piece of _kaka_!"

"Yeah, but command has been saying that they are going to crack down on smuggling and lax security. That means they make us go through the chicken _kaka_ with every highlander hick who comes through checkpoints like this, while the real smugglers and terrorists use their UN connections to blow around us."

With obvious reluctance, the sentries stepped forward. The car had only two seats, facing in opposite directions. In each sat a dusky-skinned man in a checkered gray suit, so alike they had to be twins, behind a steering wheel of his own. At the sentries' approach, a tall, veiled woman and a man with blond hair going to gray stepped out of the rear of the trailer. When a sentry spoke to the driver, the woman answered.

"Where are you from?"

"Hercegovina."

"Ethnic affiliation?"

"Circassian."

"Destination?"

The women showed confusion and concern when the sentry asked the question in intelligible Circassian. Then she answered, "Dalmatia."

"How many in your party?"

"Twelve."

"Do you have any firearms?" The woman and the man both shook their heads. "Heirlooms, antiquities or ceremonial weapons?" There was hesitation, then:

"We have a statue, silver. Family heirloom. Worth nothing. Expert said."

The other sentry raised the cover on a makeshift cage on the rear bonnet. It was crowded with pigeons. "Have your animals been checked by a vet?" asked the other. After some confusion, the woman said:

"All fine. Healthy. Clean. We know." A pointed sniff established that the sentry was skeptical.

The sentries conferred. "We need to inspect the trailer, then you can go."

A boxy extension made from a Citroen van shell stuck out of the near end of the trailer. "Smells like cat _kaka_," one of them muttered. They circled the trailer, walking past a door and a retracted awning, to find a tiny patio in the rear. A boy of 12 or 13 perched precariously but effortlessly on the rail. The lead sentry had to draw back a curtain to see within. A doorway, made from two Citroen doors cut in two and turned sideways, was set back in the hull, with a seat on either side. On the left side, a woman was seated, her head swathed in cloth but her face uncovered, almost buried by two infants in her arms and a child of four curled in her lap with the biggest cat either sentry had ever seen. On the right sat a girl of the same age as the boy, with a few wisps of red hair sticking out of her head scarf. On finding herself exposed, the older woman's face flushed, not with embarrassment or shame but anger. The cat growled, and one of the infants lifted its head to glower at the intruder as it squalled. One sentry backed away, but the other pressed on.

The sentry mounted the porch and shone a beam through the door. Just inside, directly behind the older woman, was a little closet. He peered in the closet, and saw non-descript bags and boxes; of the visible contents, only a box of AK47 ammunition was theoretically of interest, and sentries almost always ignored them in practice. Looking deeper inside, he confirmed that the sides were designed to fold out as expanding modules. What looked to be seats for a dining area were folded and turned sideways. Beyond, were another veiled woman, and a man with blonde hair. On a shelf overhead was a foot-tall statue of very tarnished metal that might have been someone's idea of a crouching big cat. Behind them was a black curtain over the opening of the boot, looking oddly like the mouth of a cave. The woman called out, "Grandfather! Sleep! No wake!" As he watched, there was a wheeze, than a string of sounds that sounded part yelling and part coughing, accompanied by enough force of air to shake the curtain. "Screw this _kaka_," the sentry muttered as he withdrew.

Princip shook his head. Behind him, someone said, "More of Beograd's finest."

He turned to face Pavel, the chief of his squires- troops in lightly armored exoskeletons that supported the finbacks. Pavel in particular was a promising scholar of the Balkan peoples, who provided invaluable assistance when linguistics or historical research was called for. "You may jest, but remember that you jest," Princip said. "To a post like this, Beograd sends the dregs more often than the best. This was six weeks ago. That is the time frame we investigate. I am not satisfied they have done anything wrong, but there is much that is strange about them. Did you recognize their language?"

"No," Pavel said, "but I have enough for detailed analysis. Do you require any more help?"

"No. But Sgt. Zed might have use for your services. You are free to use your time at your discretion." Pavel departed, while Princip remained. After a time, he reversed the recording, and then paused it. Reaching into a storage rack between his fins, he took out a small box that held his personal effects, and then took out an aged photo fifty years old, that his weeping grandfather had thrust into his hands. It showed a beautiful girl beside a white marble stella.

The electronics in his visor calculated 98.4% probability that this and the daughter of the Dardon clan were the same person.


	5. Plain clothes

_ Perhaps the earliest record of the Iscariodski is a strange record in Greek script which I encountered in the archives of Sarajevo, purporting to be a report to Alexander the Great. It tells that, in exploring the lands of the Illyrians, Alexander's armies learned of and then encountered a rare, reclusive tribe, living in the most forested and inaccessible recesses of the mountains. They were fair of skin, mainly blonde, with a red-headed caste of chiefs and priests. They knew no letters, save for signs made by their priests; had no bows nor swords, but only spears and stone knives; knew no metal but a few articles of bronze and silver; and had no houses, but slept in crude tents or in caves. Yet, they were credited with great works of stone, particularly so-called "pyramids" that still dot the landscape. On investigating several, I consider it provable beyond doubt that they are in fact natural features, but have found equally indisputable proof that they were used as shrines by ancient men. In addition, I find strong evidence of carving on an impressive scale to refine what nature began, particularly by carving higher strata into steps of decreasing size. In the most pristine examples, this creates a striking optical illusion, in which the "pyramid" appears taller and one ascending would appear, so that the shrine would appear much taller, and those ascending would appear to grow enormously. At any rate, I have established a curious fact: Where the Iscariodski are reported, some trace of these shrines can always be found._

Though the principles of the exoskeleton were well-known, it was still widely told that the finbacks were not human, but robots. In the discourses that "Sgt. Zed" routinely delivered, particularly after the 50th hour awake in his weird sleep cycle, he had suggested that, in a certain sense, there might be truth in it. Yes, the exotroopers were men, wholly separate from their mechanized armor. But on another level, the human and the armor were in symbiosis. Each of them customized the armor to his personality, and conversely, were known to change markedly in their behavior as they settled into their role. Over time, they had spent more and more time in their armor. Most curiously, the few who saw them out of armor would swear they were indistinguishable. So, perhaps, they were indeed true cyborgs, or at least the first step in the evolution of such a being. (His most recent and detailed exposition on the idea had ended prematurely at 0327 hours, when Zotgjakt threw a liquor bottle at him.)

There was no denying at least one element of truth: A seasoned exotrooper removed from his armor was a very different and far more awkward creature. Hence, there was considerable difficulty in walking among the camp's residents without being known for what they were. In the end, only two were up for the job: Zotjackt, and Zaratustra himself. They walked in "plain clothes": still wearing the base exoskeleton, but with the fins and most of the armor stripped away, so that what remained could be covered with clothing. Sgt. Zed was the one most at home. He spoke Albanian better than Zotgjakt, though his sonorous delivery made his words speech seem overly formal. Zed attracted, while Zotgjakt intercepted, and then Zed would step forward to question politely.

Pavel found them in a quarter called "Little Egypt". This small section of the camp was home to a group of people who called themselves Egyptians, or Gjupci. By all serious appraisals, they were nothing more or less than Gypsies who had adopted sedentary lifestyles as craftsmen and traders, but they vehemently resisted being counted as Gypsies. That they had convinced some people other than themselves of their Egyptian pretensions was a good indicator of the talent which made them lords among the merchants to the refugees. Their market, strategically located at optimum proximity to UN resources and distance from close observation, was not the largest in the camp, but those who wanted goods and services that might not technically be legal always went to Little Egypt.

As Pavel arrived, also in "plainclothes", he found the pair conversing in front of the small, optimally accessible yet unobtrusive stall where the camp's leading arms merchant sold his wares. Zed gave the lead in pointedly not looking at passers-by who walked toward and then quickly strolled away from the stall. Five very unobtrusive guards stood by, looking not so much apprehensive as embarassed. Their job was to quietly stop, divert or warn about authorities before matters came to such a juncture. That they had not was testimony to Zed's curious qualities. He stuck out ludicrously most anywhere he went, yet he routinely managed to get there without anyone noticing when or how he arrived. On top of that, he always managed to act like he belonged there, no matter how much appearances indicated otherwise. At the moment, he was speaking to a preteen Shqiptar. He looked coolly up as the squire approached. "Do we have new orders?" he asked.

Pavel started to salute, then said nervously, "No, sir. The Lieutenant told me to assist you."

"You may be of help," Zed responded. He glanced in the direction of a "peace keeper" trying to shuffle away with a fistful of controlled substance. "Time to move on."

Pavel and Zotgjakt glanced at the grimacing merchant and very non-descript boxes in the stall. "What about him?" Zotgjakt hissed.

Zed shrugged, already walking away. "What of him? He knows nothing of importance to our task."

"What- Then why were you here?" asked Pavel.

"... For the last hour," added Zotgjakt.

"To make a point," Zed replied. "The likes of him have little to fear from us, not because we are weak, or even because we want their good will, but because we have more important concerns."

Pavel looked around. "Say- where are the Flea and the Tick?"

"I sent them where they would have the best chance of avoiding trouble," Zed answered.

"The morgue," Zotgjakt added.


	6. 5: Strange Deaths

**Back despite popular demand! I brought this story through some major changes, so Chapter 2 and 3 are being replaced.**

_As the tale is written, the fair tribe were sometimes called Dryodoroi, People of the Trees, and sometimes Tartoroi, People of Tartarus. It was told that they worshiped Death itself, in the name of Thauotor and the form of a great black cat, and that the lions and leopards- still living in the mountains in those days- fought for them. For those who entered the woods, from soldiers in arms to emissaries bearing gifts, were set upon not only by the fearsome men of the forest but by beasts, and the most terrible of all were great black cats. They were as large as lions, and had fangs larger still. Their guile seemed greater than men's, their stealth supernatural. Weapons of bronze and iron did them no harm, so that many spoke of the legend of the Nemean lion. Scores and hundreds of men were found killed. Some were killed but not consumed, and others were mutilated like eunuchs._

"If there's one thing I hate," the Tick muttered, "it's a coroner who enjoys his job."

"On average, we have three deaths by violence a week," said the Indian coroner pleasantly. "Lately, numbers have been... somewhat up."

"By how much?" said the Tick.

"Ah... nine."

"Nine deaths a week?"

"Ah... no. Nine more."

"So- the homicide rate triples," said the Flea, "and no one files so much as a report?- Ow!" The Tick struck him in the neck with a servo-augmented finger flick.

"Investigations are ongoing," the coroner said. "It would be premature to call in outside help."

"Well, what are the causes of death?" said the Tick.

"Mostly stabbing, beating, strangling. Some shooting," said the coroner.

There was a pause, then the Flea said, "Anything else, like... odd?"

The coroner frowned, then sighed, sounding halfway between anxiety and relief. "I was not to tell anyone about this. It hasn't even been written up in a report. But, I think maybe it is what you are looking for." He opened a drawer, then lifted a sheet that covered the body within, in the middle. The Flea gave a stifled cry, while the Tick rocked on his heels in surprise. "Looks," the Tick said, "like a case of overbite." He glanced to his partner, expecting the inevitable jokes to start coming, but the Flea was only shuffling back.

"What happened?" the Tick said. "What was it done with? Who- Holy kaka! That's a service tatoo! This bastard was a peace keeper!"

"Yes," the coroner said, "Corporal Jean Petain. He was second-in-command of the Cygani quarter. We found him the day before yesterday. The official report is being delayed while we perform a more detailed examination. Between you, me and the departed, the report's done even so, but somebody isn't ready to accept the findings. They keep saying, double check, do another test, double check..."

"Yeah," the Tick said uncertainly, "so what's the report?"

"These wounds," said the coroner, "were inflicting by blunt cutting instruments, applied with great force, more or less at the same time. It was accompanied by a pulling force, enough to stretch the skin and muscle tissue as they were being sheared." The Flea gulped, then covered a burp. "Then there's these scratches below. Again, made with blunt edges applied with great force. Four parallel wound tracks on each side, plus a fifth at an angle to the others."

"It looks like it could have been done with someone with blades on his finger tips," the Tick said.

"That's what the team is leaning toward," the coroner said. He was already covering the body and shutting the drawer. "But I know better. The wounds were inflicted with too much force, and not enough of an edge. No human could have done this. It was an animal!"

The coroner jumped at the sound of an opening door. The exotroopers turned to see a woman entering, blond, well-tanned and wiry. Her age was hard to judge, and she had an unmistakeable air of imperious authority. The Flea shied back at her approach. "What's going on here?" she said.

"These men are Serbs, making a routine inspection," the coroner said.

The woman looked them over. "I am Lt. Dr. Irena Kohls, chief health inspector for the clinic. Who are you?"

"I'm the-" The Tick caught himself. "I am Corporal Lazar Kosmolets. This is Mihan Josevic."

Kohls looked at their baggy sleeves. "Finbacks! With wrist grenade launchers! Get out, or I'll report you for armed trespass into an international medical facility!"

The Flea started to turn tail, but the Tick grabbed him by the elbow. "We were just leaving," he said. "We might be back later." Then he swung around, guiding his partner through a dignified exit. As they left, Kohls glared at the coroner.

The Flea shuddered. "That... that was just... who would do a thing like that?"

"What," said the Tick, "like we haven't done worse?"

"Never like that!" protested the Flea. "I could never do that to another man!"

"Guess you have a soft spot," said the Tick. He stopped. Behind them, they could hear very loud profanity in what was just recognizable as Kohl's voice. They looked at each other.

Princip sighed as he surveyed the assembled peacekeepers. "I will remind you are my country's guests,and I am in overall command," he said, beginning to pace. "Your commanders have promised cooperation with my investigation of the death of _your_ man. Do not think, because I wear a mask, that I cannot read your faces. You were squadmates with Cpl. Petain. You knew him. You knew what he was doing. You know something about what happened to him." He whirled at the sound of a snicker, to see one man looking studiously straight face, while another beside him glared.

Princip stalked to the pair, glancing at their badges. "You were on the same shift with him. You would have spent more time than anyone with him. I want answers, not decorum! Was he a blackmarketer?" No response. "Did he have a lover?" Eyes flickered. "Was he a homosexual?" Eyes dropped.

Finally, the man who had been glaring blurted out: "All right, all right, I'll tell you as much as I know. You gotta understand how things are, first. Any one of us, as likely as not, he's in something. Among ourselves, we don't knock ourselves out trying to hide, and we don't pry, either. And, if there's a big problem, we try to handle it ourselves. Like, if we know a guy's getting a little on the side when he's off duty, we look around it, no harm, no foul. But if he goes too far to keep it coming, we give him less space, and if that's not enough, we let just enough get out so he gets sent where he can't cause more trouble. Then there's the two most important things: We don't take from each other, and we don't get into stuff above our own pay grade- the kind of thing it takes a higher-up to do."

Princip inclined his helmet. "Then Petain broke the rules...?"

"Yeah, and in more ways than you might be thinking," the peacekeeper said warily. "We don't know exactly which way he swung, but he liked 'em young. Not `forbidden fruit' young, but more like `not even ripe'. But that wasn't the worst of it. He liked to find things, and he liked letting people know what he knew even more. That was how he stayed on top as long as he did, but he would do it whether he needed something or not- like he enjoyed making people squirm. It got so a lot of people were ready to fink on him no matter what he knew. But then he managed to get himself a piece of something bigger- _higher-up_ big. We didn't know what, and we didn't want to. After that, there was nothing we could do by finking. But we didn't mind. Going up the food chain meant he spent less time on us. An' we knew, just from knowin' him, that he was going to mess with whoever he got in with same as with us, and they were going to make him pay sooner and a lot harder than the higher-ups ever would."

Princip conferred with the Flea and the Tick as the peacekeepers sullenly departed: "So, the business with Petain seems straightforward enough: He was involved in a criminal enterprise. He took to much for himself. They killed him... perhaps using an exotic animal."

"Yeah," the Flea said, "and if you ask me, that doc was in on it. I say, no man does that..."

"Yes, duly noted," Princip said. "It is time to do more digging. I will pull the UN's files for death reports. I want you to interview the Wildlife and Domestic Animal Management department. Ask especially about big cats. And this evening, I want a patrol through the Cygani quarter. Be visible, but restrained."

He spoke over the channel: "Zaratustra! Have you found anything?"

"No," he said, surveying a small lean-to built in the back of a Yugo bakery van. "But I know where to look."

At the arms shop where Zed had loitered, one of the guards escorted a man with blond hair forward. As soon as he was at the counter, he said in clipped English, "I want to buy guns."

"What kind of guns?" the merchant said warily.

"_Big_ guns."

"How big?" the merchant said, now sounding downright suspicious.

"How big you have?"


End file.
